How to save a Life (Jalex)

Therapy

Now I sat in an office and was bored out of my brains. The desk was so messy, incredible. There was a little name tag with my therapist's name on it: Dr Thomas McDonald. A Scot, great. Not that I have anything against Scots, but they had such an awful accent, I just hated it. And somehow they reminded me of my childhood in England. Yes, I know, Scotland is a part of the UK and England also, but England alone is just England. Still, I lived in the UK, meaning I had a kind of connection to all of these countries that were part of it. Whoa, I rambled again, seemed like I had a day where I was alright today. Not good but not bad. Just somewhere in the middle of it.

After like five minutes (why the hell did he let me wait five minutes? He could just have come in earlier or stay in here, but noo, let this guy sit around in the office and wait) a tall, brown-haired man entered the office. He was so tall, I think he was even taller than Jack. My doctor had dark hair, it was almost black, he seemed to be fond of it and kept taking care that it looked so shiny. A point where this man was better than the last therapist who had so awfully greasy hair. But of course, Dr McDonald's hair was not as shiny or seemed to be as soft as it was in Jack's case. Oh god, I had to compare everything to Jack, that wasn't normal, I guess.

“Hello, Mr Gaskarth, or am I allowed to call you Alexander? You can call me Thomas, if you like to.”, the guy began. “Alex is enough, Dr McDonald.”, I answered shortly. The doctor nodded and scribbled something on a notebook. Probably that he already thinks that I'm a fuck up

“So, Alex. Tell me why you're here.”

He looked at me like he was really interested in my story. He would get paid for it, of course he was interested! As long as he would get his money after an hour, he would listen to me, would give me unhelpful hints, prescribe me some medicine that would make my head dizzy. Would that help me? Definitely not. Would it make him earn money? Definitely.

“Okay. My best friend, Jack, is worried about me because I had committed suicide and would cut and had cut all the connections to my band, in which are my best friends. He ran into me at some party and since that he tries to be there for me and stuff, but I would shout at him if I had a bad day. So he convinced me to come here because he couldn't really take it any more and thinks he couldn't help me, but he makes me better everyday.”, I began to recount as he scribbled further on his notebook. I would like to read the things he wrote down, just to see whether everyone thinks the same of me as I do.

“Tell me about this Jack, he seems to mean much to you. You seem to be not so convinced of therapy, do you? And I think he had a hard work to do that you came here.” Oh god, did he mean this? Not so convinced of therapy? I already hated it!

“To be honest, I hate therapy. I had to visit a therapist once and he was a jerk. I hated him and he probably hated me, so we didn't get along too well and my parents thought I was better, so thankfully they allowed me to stop therapy.”, I began. Mr McDonald began to laugh and added a short note to his other notes. “And what's the matter with Jack? Tell me something about this guy.”